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"Fieldmouse an' Murphy," said Mose. "Huh-uh! 'At's a bad combination fo' us, boss, a ba-ad combination. 'Membeh Obadiah?" The Bald-faced Kid strolled into Isaiah's stall. "Chicken Liver's got it," he whispered. "I saw Weaver pass it to him." "That's what I've been waiting for, Frank," said Old Man Curry. "Here, Shanghai! You lead him out on the track.
I had to pull up with Fieldmouse, and couldn't get her to going again. She's a mean, skulking mare, and won't run a lick after she's been interfered with.... Who else saw it? Why, Merritt was right there somewheres, and so was Grogan. They're all that I'm sure of. You might ask 'em whether the nigger cut acrost or not.
Obadiah was the one they was leery of, so Weaver put Fieldmouse in the race and told Murphy to take care of you. It's simple as A, B, C. Wouldn't you get back at 'em if you had a chance?" "I ain't signed any peace documents as I know of," said the old man, a smouldering light in his eye. "Now you're talking!" said the Kid.
I've got business with the children of Israel." The Fieldmouse money was beginning to pour into the ring, and the block men were busy with their erasers. Each time the mare's price went down, Isaiah's price went up a little. Old Man Curry drew out a tattered roll of currency and went from booth to booth, betting on his horse at four to one. "Think you've got a chance to-day, old man?"
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